


Bodies Don't Walk

by marigoldcrown



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Bloodplay, Body Horror, Crime Scenes, Demon Shane Madej, Demons, Hell, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Knifeplay, Knives, Murder, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Punishment, Revenge, Serial Killer Ryan Bergara, Serial Killers, Smoking, Supernatural Elements, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marigoldcrown/pseuds/marigoldcrown
Summary: Ricky tried his best to pull away. He had to escape. His face was contorted, screwed up with the effort it took for his body to gulp in air. Between the thumbs pressed deep into his wrists, the killer could feel the flutter of that sweet little pulse in his throat, trying so hard, like a butterfly trapped in a bell jar.Those scarlet eyes never tore away.
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/Demon Shane Madej
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Bodies Don't Walk

**Author's Note:**

> wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
> 
> this was written for a horror prompt, had to be written in 2000 words or less 
> 
> (trigger warnings for: murder, serial killer shit, revenge torture, fair amount of blood and violence)

Wetness slicked down between his thumb and forefinger, dripping onto his wrist. His victim’s bleeding jaw was washed with a fresh gurgle of saliva and his face was contorted, screwed up with the effort it took for his body to gulp in air. Between the thumbs pressed deep into his throat, the killer could feel the flutter of that sweet little pulse, trying so hard, like a butterfly trapped in a bell jar. He focused on that instead of the fingers scrabbling at his wrists. Little by little, the man beneath him gasped feebly as his lips bruised lilac. 

When the man finally fell silent, Ricky’s shoulders released their tension and he heaved, leaning over the body. He felt the sweat running between his shoulder blades, tacking under his grimy shirt and his forehead was burning up, the way it did when he was ill. His heartbeat was the only thing he could hear, until the silence surrounding them was unsettled like a stone being skimmed across water when he leaned on one knee to push himself up, his soles digging into the wet gravel.

Like a twisted snow-angel, the victim sprawled out in the dusty path. His soft brown eyes, identical shade of his sweat-stained hair, were still open and they gazed at Ricky, lifeless but warm with the amber streetlamp flame. This poor gentleman was a pretty one. Significantly taller than his killer, but easy to catch off-guard. Healthily lean and dressed smartly. Ricky liked him a lot. Blood was still bubbling excessively from his purple lips as they smiled serenely, the result of a nasty bite to the tongue. 

Ricky couldn’t remember if he’d done that. His attention stayed on the metallic hue in his mouth for longer than he’d have admitted.  
It had gotten dark so quickly. The oil lamps hanging about the district steadily burned, though their glow was watery against the inky shadows of the draughty, damp rafters. When Ricky had first dragged him here, the last vanilla streaks of twilight were just beginning to deepen to the hue of dirty paint-water.

Ricky’s breath plumed out around him as he blew on his fingertips to warm them, still tacky with blood. Rubbing them together, he dared a smile as the congealed redness spread across his palms, and he touched his wrists together to paint them red too. The hair on his arms flattened beneath their new gluey gloves. 

Stepping over the corpse, Ricky reached for the black jacket he’d shed during the pursuit. Slipping it on, he knew that it would hide the mess he was in. The cigarette box kept in the jacket’s breast pocket was crumpled and wrinkled during the struggle, but its contents were intact. Ricky lit up and took a long drag, the way he usually did after sex. 

The smoke mottled the fog and masked the stench of death.

It was still quiet long into the night. The old radio sputtered like a straining car exhaust, crackling like a Geiger counter as Ricky smiled to himself whilst rinsing the blood from his hands. The body had been found, it seemed.

Ricky kept his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and leaned against the floor-length pane framing his apartment window, blinds hitched up to let the murky street light speckle in. Reaching into his pocket, he tugged out a cigarette and once again lit up. He always needed a few after every kill.

When his floorboards creaked, he wasn’t too concerned. It was a grotty building, badly in need of repair. 

Ricky reached over to adjust the volume on the radio, but froze when he heard an extra footstep. 

Bodies don’t walk, he thought. 

The tap plinked every few seconds, its sink still emanating a gruesome odour from when he’d cleaned his hands.

Ricky exhaled on his cigarette.

Bodies don’t walk.

“Tell yourself that all ya want, buddy.”

The murderer’s shoulders tensed. That eerily soft voice was too familiar for his liking.

Another footstep. Wet. Bloody. 

“Ghosts don’t exist.” Ricky said to the air.

“You’re right. They don’t.”

“You fuckers always come back. Can’t trust any of you.” Ricky shook his head with an irritated smirk, stubbing his cigarette on the windowpane, hearing its feeble hiss. “Always come back to haunt me.” His fingers stretched out for the blade jammed into the wooden pane, and watched as it splintered when he coaxed it free. This knife wasn’t one for killing with, it was too pretty, too virgin. At least, that’s how Ricky would have liked to have kept it. “Answer me something.”

The presence he felt was too substantial to ignore. He could feel the burn of its glare. “Why can’t you just _die?!”_ Using his strong arm, he whipped around, blade pointed, and stabbed it forward. 

It hit flesh, but not in the way Ricky had expected. The knife was stoppered in a bloodless fist, of which extended down an arm, then a shoulder, then the rest of the man whose life Ricky had just seized as he stepped out of the shadows, as if passing through the veil. 

He was taller than Ricky remembered, face hardened with a fang-filled grin. His eyes were blood moons. They never blinked. His body was still dappled in blood, shirt wet. When the man regarded Ricky with his iron glare, the murderer refused to acknowledge the chill down his spine. He wasn’t like the others.

Ricky braced his arm, his hand still hanging onto the blade handle. If he let go, this man would kill him for sure. Instead, he tightened his grip. “Ghosts don’t exist.” He sneered.

The other man laughed. It sounded like death. Ricky didn’t like that death was laughing at him.

“You’re right. All in your head, friend.”

“Then the same goes for you. You’re not real either.”

He laughed again, even relaxing his grip on the blade a little. Despite his bloodied state, his palm and fingers remained clean, clearly uncut. 

_“Do I look like a fucking ghost to you?”_

The brunette almost doubled over with his laughter. It was unpleasant. It was ground-shaking. It made the windows shudder. It was unearthly. It made Ricky nervous.

“Baby, you’re a funny one.”

Ricky wasn’t prepared for the man’s face to be so close to his own when he blinked. He couldn’t pull away from that glare. It was a void. Avoidable. A tranquil fury colder than the deepest pits of hell. 

The man reached for Ricky’s other hand and raised it to the air, out of his peripheral vision. Try as he might to wrench it free, this guy had superhuman strength. He definitely wasn’t like the others. His fingers, warm enough to unsettle, slowly ascended that free hand, scathing up the palm to clasp the fingertips. 

The gesture was unusually soft.

“I like funny. Takes a lot to make a guy like me laugh. I’m glad we ran into each other tonight.”

Ricky suddenly swore violently and bit his lip as something pointed and bone-like pierced his wrist. Had the man somehow concealed another knife? Ricky strained and struggled as fresh blood ran in thin rivers down his tanned arm. The creature grinned.

“Come now. You think yourself a god, don’t you?”

Ricky cried out through his teeth, feeling the sweat drip down his brow, as that point pushed deeper into his wrist. He watched, to his horror, as the side of the man’s face soon bore a healthy scarlet trail, streaming like tears down his right cheek. Ricky struggled as much as he could, until he froze. The point of his knife now gently pressed into his jugular. His captor must have twisted it around whilst he was distracted. Too much movement and Ricky would be impaled. 

“Oh yeah, indeed you do. Wasn’t that what you whispered to me with your hands round my throat? A god has the ability to give and take away life. I remember it so clearly.”

Ricky’s eyes watered, his entire arm seeped in crimson. He grimaced, determined not to howl.

“F-Fuck you.” He spat. 

His victim _(yes, he was still his victim – he had claimed this man’s life)_ cocked his head to one side with a thoughtful expression.

“Funny thing for a little guy like you to say. After all, you get your rocks off to sucking the breath out of every poor man you lay eyes on.”

The man wrenched free the blade from Ricky’s grasp and tossed it to the side. Ricky heard the noisy clatter as it skidded across the floorboards. In that short time, the victim had secured his grip on his other wrist. Again he raised it. No. 

No, no, no.

Ricky tried his best to pull away. He had to escape. His face was contorted, screwed up with the effort it took for his body to gulp in air. Between the thumbs pressed deep into his wrists, the killer could feel the flutter of that sweet little pulse in his throat, trying so hard, like a butterfly trapped in a bell jar.  
Those scarlet eyes never tore away.  
But they finally closed with a blissful sigh from their owner as fresh blood seeped down his temple, Ricky crying in agony as his other wrist was pierced on the same bony point, this time on the other side of the man’s head. When Ricky glanced up through tear-filled eyes, his heart dropped, as he stared at the blood-soaked horns jutting out from the man’s cranium. His wrists were anchored to them, not enough to break through entirely, but enough to bleed healthily.

Dropping his gaze back to the man, Ricky whimpered. 

“Why?”

His victim’s face was so close. He looked horrifically gorgeous soaked in blood. He smiled at Ricky. A soft, sweet, genuine one, to match the one he shyly reached Ricky’s way in the bar where they’d bumped into one another.

“Baby.”

The man suddenly moved and tore his horns away from Ricky. With a scream, Ricky stumbled backwards, arms out and numb from their suspension, sticky, and he stared with horror at the stigmata in his wrists. 

The demon regarded him, still with that painfully soft smile, pillared at each corner by the murderer’s blood. “You can’t get more godlike than that. Think of it as a thank-you gift.”

Turning on his heel, hands in his pockets, the demon stepped towards the shadows in the room, head lowered in a smug manner. Behind him arched two jet-black wings that reached down to his tailbone. He paused before entering the void, throwing Ricky Goldsworth a wink.

“See ya in Hell.”


End file.
